


middle or end, but never beginning

by ashdeanmanns



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, Graphic Description, M/M, One Shot, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 15:40:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashdeanmanns/pseuds/ashdeanmanns
Summary: Where does a love story truly start?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	middle or end, but never beginning

_"Did you lock the door?"_

_"That'll be $2.95."_

_"My mom's parked over here!"_

_"You forgot your wallet, sir!"_

_"I tried so hard."_

_"We had no homework."_

_"Do you hear that?"_

_"I love you."_

...

_"I'll see you soon. I promise."_

_"You better."_

...

Adaptation is a rock cliff-face underneath a surging waterfall. The subject that is adapting can compare to being the rocks under the water, the water being the thing that makes it necessary to adapt. The rocks--people--have adapted over time, the water constantly wearing against the rocks, making them give way and allowing themselves to be reshaped, upon necessity. First came becoming humans at all. Hair, eye, and skin colors--blue and green eyes being more sensitive to light, brown eyes being able to absorb it better. Flexibility. Our skin wrinkling after being in water too long. The way our bones are shaped. Born with words on our skin, telling us the first or last thing our soulmate would say to us.

It is possible to naturally die from a broken heart. It is possible to naturally die from loneliness. It just depends on what is going to die. Worker bees die after their queen dies, the hive having gone into chaos, the workers missing their queen so much that they just lost all will to live, and everything just...ends. If a Sun Conure gets separated from their flock, they will scream and squawk in a voice that will carry for hundreds of yards, trying to communicate with their flock. They're raised in groups of twenty or thirty, and can't cope without the others, for they are very loud and social birds.

And then there's the unnatural way to die. Suicide. Something dark and at times inhumane, but all the same, at times it has a necessity to it. Sometimes, it's your only way out, to not die at the hands of something horrible, to die on your own terms, not someone else's. Something now natural, from adaptation. It is the tenth most common cause of death in the United States. If a teenage girl is suicidal, most statistics say the average for her to commit suicide is age sixteen. It is something barely brushed over, if spoken about at all, but wildly important all the same. It's something out there, that everyone knows about, but no one talks about. For some reason, it's been made into this taboo, and it's hurt the world and the people in it.

Sun Conures mate for life. They are very vibrantly-colored and social birds, able to create strong bonds. They usually end up mating for life whether in the wild or in captivity. Humans, however, their love is fleeting. They are capable of making the strong bonds Sun Conures do, of feeling those strong emotions, but whether or not the feeling stays or strays is the question. Many humans only have one real love in their life. Some have multiple. Many never find the right person.

To help heal those problems, evolution brought on the words written on us before we were even born. Fate decided to play, you could say, and wanted destiny to be more direct, to stop anyone from falling in love with the wrong person, or simply just wasting their time. But then again, fate has some flaws, right? The first people to have ever been born with it was many, many years ago, and people were shocked. Mothers were astonished to see their babies tattooed, at times with outlandish, inappropriate phrases. It was either the first or last thing their soulmate would ever say to them, and, by all means, the suspense was thick. Parents reading the words on their child's body, just sensing that it was a young age, not knowing if it was the last or first, terrified beyond belief for the day that it would come, for it may come too soon.

The words were confusing, but they were like some type of blessing, some would say.

Now, this story is about one couple in particular. But as one half of their bond says, love stories shouldn't start at the beginning. It should start in the middle, where everything is comfortable but is still a sun-soaked and star-kissed utopia, where the love has been there long enough to not remember how you went through your day without that one other person that makes your life absolutely perfect. Where all the things that were a struggle to remember at the beginning are now engrained into your daily routine--making their coffee or tea just how you know they like it, waking them up if their alarm didn't succeed, making sure they eat if they're caught up with work, and it's all just as easy as if you'd been doing it all your life.

But, the other thought, why start in the beginning or the middle when you could start at the end? That's where everything is disappearing, gone, all the happiness or sadness you gained leaving your life, leaving you either drained or exhilarated. At the end, you know how everything and everyone ends up, all you have to do is make it so everything beforehand leads to its end. Wouldn't you rather know your ending so you don't waste time trying to navigate the unknown? If you know the end, you can easily map out every step to it. Even if your ending is being heartbroken and grieving, wouldn't it at least be good to know that that is where you'd end up--a wallowing cast of a being, only help up by bones and muscle.

But, how would you get to the middle or the end without the beginning? See, the beginning, is full of shy smiled and harsh blushes, first kisses and your palms sweating when you hold hands. Learning more and more about the person until you know everything there is to know, even the small things--every embarrassing moment, seen every horrifying baby picture, foods they enjoy and foods they hate, the way they think late at night when the world is silent, and there is nothing to live up to.

The beginning, for them, was a thunderstorm. Their love was like cracks of lightning arching down their spines and all through their chests, zaps of electricity jumping between them within every touch, hairs standing up at eye-contact.

Their connection, their bond, had first been denied. What they felt for each other was fleeting, they thought. Flawed, they thought. Little did they know that it really was flawed. They had Fate's flaw etched into their body and soul, in the form of black English letters circled around their wrists like a bracelet. They had the last words they'd ever say to each other. At that point, there was no proof if they were soulmates. They wouldn't know until it was the last words they'd utter to the person they love the most.

They tried to bottle their thunderstorm. But, as all climatologists know, that is not possible, and the bottle soon broke. Shattered into sharp, glittering shards. It was one dark, intoxicated night, the bottle breaking over drunken stumbling and heavy breaths, mouths and bodies pressed together in intense desires, hands fisted into clothing and eyes shut--because who holds their eyes open during a kiss?

Their drunken night ended when they woke up the next morning. Well, when one woke up, finding the other's head laying on his stomach, splayed out under rumpled blankets, the cloth bending to their bodies' wills. It was almost beautiful, he thought, the way the other looked so peaceful as the colors of the sunrise washed over him, the rosy sunlight turning his skin more of a gold than it already was, the honey hues healthy and strong. Muscle bending and winding underneath smoothly honey skin, speckles of pure gold splashed over his face, light brown hair turned into strands of gold from the sunlight, sticking up at wild angles from the other scrunching the strands in his fists.

Looking into his eyes was like running through a forest. The colors that made up his iris shined and collided, shifted and sparkled, able to shock you into place--it seemed like you were looking into a kaleidoscope of greens. They never are the exact same color. Forest green. Candy apple green. Sometimes, in certain lighting, they looked like green leaves browning.

Soon after that incident--both of them awake had been stressful and terrifying, both of them now aware--they were together. Sharing sweet kisses, holding hands, buying the other coffee--their rule was that they couldn't pay each other back or they'd be "coffee prostitutes"--and forcing each other to listen to their favored music. Shockingly, classic rock and orchestral didn't go too well together, in most situations. But with them, it did. If a taste in music genre was a personality characteristic, these two were it. Orchestral--portrayed to be smooth and sophisticated, like finely aged scotch, but could definitely surprise you. Classical in the sense of instruments, but could be taken most directions with the sounds they made. Castiel wasn't much. Messy hair, dressed in button-up shirts and dark slacks, always without fail a backward tied tie, and a trench coat slightly too big for him. He liked books and words--"Words are what make up lives, but also what create them"--and was tons of different things at the same time. He was sweet, he was soft, he was intense, he was creative and poetic, and his entire being spoke words even if he wasn't making a sound. He was everything, and people found him interesting, if they paid him any attention at all. Now, Dean, he was the definition of masculinity, the stereotypical vision most people get when they hear the word. He was also the definition of classic rock. He was harsh drum beats, the screech and thrum of an electric guitar, the need to sing along and head-bang to your favorite song. He was the sudden drop of an outstanding chorus that stood apart from the rest of the song. He could either blend in with a crowd or stand out above everyone else--it depended on what he wanted. Though, no matter what he did, he was attractive and had some extreme charm--He could get what he wanted with a wink or a smile--and though he knew it, he never used it for his own favor, despite the few times he really needed something. Light brown hair, green-based kaleidoscopes for an eye-color, broad shoulders that could compare to a line-backers, dressed in frayed and ripped jeans, T-shirts, and always his beloved leather jacket.

Dean was the one to think of a love story better if it started in the middle. Castiel was the one to think the story is better if it starts with the end. Neither of them thought the beginning was worthwhile--at least, not to start with.

Their beginning was striking, glass shattering and electricity crackling under their skin.

Their middle was a blissful utopia of familiarity and love.

Their ending...Their ending was neither easy or cruel. They were already saying goodbye, why not make it their last? On Castiel's wrist, in the black letters that he's been wondering about since he could read, was, "_I'll see you soon. I promise._" Every time Dean spoke those words to him, the whole world slammed down on his chest. It was worse than a thunderstorm in a bottle, worse than being cut with a knife. The air was knocked from his lungs and he couldn't breathe.

On Dean's wrist, however, the words were more common. "_You better._"

When they did speak their words to each other, they didn't even think about the words on their skin that they've both studied for years--every loop and line of every letter, the thickness of different parts of the letters, what might happen when they hear it.

They said goodbye, and they parted ways. They didn't even realize it was for good.


End file.
